


How He Hurts

by waterbird13



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5x14 tag, Addiction, Alternating Points of View, Canon Compliant, Detox, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Panic Room, although I think it holds to canon, angsty, detainment, doesn't show Dean in the nicest light, mentions of bodily functions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 09:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4782701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterbird13/pseuds/waterbird13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Told from four alternating perspectives, this piece fills in the gaps of what happened at Bobby's house post My Bloody Valentine.</p><p>This is not a fix-it, a feel-good, or in any way happy. It fits into canon and is only filling in a weirdly empty space in what we were given.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How He Hurts

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone--
> 
> Here's the season five angst fest I promised. 
> 
> Warnings: this deals with detox and addiction and poor treatments/views of the above topics, which come with the canon of SPN. It mentions bodily functions (ie piss) because that is a reality of such a torturous detox that the show neglected to deal with. It also has alternating points of view, with each character getting to say their piece, a new style for me.  
> This is not a fix-it, or a hurt/comfort. This is not a redeeming story for the wrongs I believe everyone committed against Sam here. This is hurt and angst that fits perfectly into what canon gave us, and merely tries to elaborate on the strangely large hole that is this detox. It does not show Dean or even Cas in the nicest light.

Bobby startles in his chair when he hears them lumbering up the steps, making two or three times as much noise as they need to. The door slams open, and his eyes are glued to the four-legged race trying to squeeze through his tiny door. Dean and the angel each support a side of Sam, who looks like he’s not much up to walking anywhere on his own, while they frog-march him into the living room.

Bobby’s heart picks up. They should have called, said the kid was injured, although what he could have done about it, he doesn’t know. Still. He should have been told. Just because he’s in this damn chair doesn’t mean he should be left entirely out of the loop.

Then Dean speaks up. “Gonna take him downstairs,” he announces, and it takes Bobby a second to understand, but when he does, his heart plummets.

_Aw, kid. Fuck._

Sam looks wrecked, and whatever happened, Bobby knows it was nothing good. “Ya know where it is,” he manages to say, eyes still glued to the kid, his head collapsed forward, feet dragging a bit. The angel’s grip slips, and Sam almost falls.

“I can...get myself down there,” Sam says, and Bobby thinks he hears the faintest hint of the kid who mouthed off to John underneath the pain and defeat.

“Sammy, you stupid fuck, just let us…” Dean begins, but Sam wrenches himself from their grasps, and apparently the dead weight can walk, even if it’s not very coordinated.

All grace and skill is gone from that body. It’s a tower waiting to collapse, and Bobby can only hope the kid manages to collapse onto the cot and not face-first down the stairs.

Still, he wobbles his way downstairs, walking himself into that room. Bobby hasn’t been down there since right after Sam got out last time, hasn’t been able to, but the image is burned firmly in his mind. He swallows.

_The kid swallowed demon blood…_

_So what?_ He scolds himself. He himself knocked back half a bottle of whiskey two nights past, and while he doesn’t know what Sam did with the blood, it’s probably not worse than the fact Bobby almost set the house on fire, drunk and convinced he could manage the grill once more. He doesn’t see anyone coming to lock him up in an iron prison.

Before he can put words to these tentative thoughts, the brothers make his mind up for him. “Fine, fall on your face, see if I care,” Dean says. Cas just stares between the two brothers, as if not sure what to say.

Sam grits his teeth. “Are you gonna tie me down?”

“Damn right I am,” Dean says.

Sam nods. “Good.” Then he begins making his way downstairs. It’s slow progress, with Cas waiting behind him and Dean doing the same, far less patiently. Bobby rolls his chair to the top of the stairs, so he can watch.

They’re out of sight once they go to the panic room, so Bobby doesn’t see Sam enter. He feels it, though, feels it in his gut. Feels one of his kids walking into something that may well kill him. It nearly did last time. And even if it doesn’t, it’s a prison cell. One cot, a pitcher of water if Dean remembers to fill it--that Sam won’t be able to reach, tied down--and a bucket to piss in--which will also be out of Sam’s reach.

Bobby swallows, and closes his eyes.

He can still hear what’s going on downstairs, though. Can hear the creak of the old bed, can hear Dean and the angel talking. Dispassionately, like there’s not a sick kid between them.

Then he can hear Sam. “Don’t let me out ‘til I’m clean,” he instructs.

Dean snorts. “You’re not calling the shots, anymore, little brother,” he says firmly. Cruelly, maybe. Once, Bobby might have called it tough love. “Junkies don’t make decisions. Don’t worry, anyway. We’ll make sure you get clean.”

Sam’s silent after that, and Bobby pictures him, tied to the cot, hopeless and helpless, riding this out.

The door slams, and then the lock slides into place. There’s a little muffled bang. Someone leaning against the wall, maybe. Quiet voices, Dean and the angel talking. Probably about the job. Maybe about Sam.

The screaming takes almost an hour to start, and in that time, Bobby never leaves the top of the stairs. He curses the damn chair, for the thousandth time. He could admit it’s permanent, have those stair things installed so he can get around. But that’s too much, still.

At first it’s loud whimpers, so loud even Bobby can hear them, even if they’re muffled. Then he screams for release, for freedom, and Bobby balls his hands into fists.

Dean comes storming up the stairs, and it’s all Bobby can do to get out of the way fast enough. Deal doesn’t deign to say anything, not even to fill in the still missing pieces. Instead, he stomps right outside.

Bobby shakes his head. He supposes the angel will come up eventually. Maybe then, he’ll get some answers.

 

Dean doesn’t even know who he’s asking for help. God, maybe, but God is Sammy’s purview and certainly not anymore. God doesn’t take creatures of the damned, Dean knows that much.

Maybe he’s damned too, just in a different way, and that’s why his prayers go unanswered.

Regardless, he prays, then scoffs and kicks a rock across the yard. Who’s he kidding? No one listens to Winchesters, least of all heaven.

He takes a deep breath, fresh Dakota air filling his lungs. That’s the stuff, he figures, although right now it feels as hollow as anything else. He takes another breath. Can’t hurt.

That’s not Sam in there. He just has to remember that. It’s not Sam. It’s some…some junkie, who needs a detox. That’s it.

Sam is…well, Sam’s been lost for a while, honestly, and Dean’s lost next to all hope of bringing that kid back. Dean’ll never forget Sam. Wide-eyed wonder, admiration for his brother. Stubborn with Dad, sure, but always willing to give in at a word from Dean. He listened. He had some respect. Knew how family worked.

If Dean’s honest, he hasn’t seen that kid since the day he walked out on them for college.

Still, he got something back, some facsimile back, and yeah, Sam wasn’t right. Was seeing shit and there was something after him. But it was good enough. A good start. They were getting there.

And then Ruby, and this, and the blood and the apocalypse, and maybe Dad was right. Maybe he should have killed Sam when he had the chance.

He shakes his head viciously, as if he can dislodge the thought. No matter what’s happened, that’s not an option. Never really an option. It’s his job to take care of Sam, whatever it takes, keep him human and knowing his place in the family. It’s difficult, damn near impossible sometimes, but it will not end with him shooting his brother in the head, dammit. It won’t.

He picks up another rock and throws it, as hard as he can. It makes a satisfying clang as it bounces off the side of a dilapidated Ford. He shakes his head.

He’s not going to kill his brother. He’s going to fix this, dry Sam out, get a grip on his brother, get them back in check, save the universe, because that’s his damn job. It’s not fair for everything to rest on his shoulders, but Winchester’s lives aren’t fair, and that’s the way it is.

He goes to walk back inside, but then stops. Nothing says he has to listen to Sam scream. That’s Sam’s cross to bear, what he has to face for his sins, and if it’s all he has to deal with, well, then he can damn well face it.

Instead, he climbs into the Impala. He’s not running away. He’s just going for a little drive, just going to get a beer, maybe a few shots, something to take his mind off this clusterfuck of a day.

He deserves a little something, now and then.

 

Castiel waits outside the door, largely unruffled by the screaming.

Sam Winchester is his friend, it is true, but, then again, this is not Sam. This is the devil working through Sam, and Sam needs to be cleansed. The real Sam will be grateful when it’s done.

He comforts himself with that thought.

How strange it is, to need…comfort. Then again, just yesterday, he ate well over one hundred hamburgers, something humans often refer to as a comfort food. Angels do not need comfort.

Cas supposes he isn’t much of an angel anymore.

An angel would be able to cure Sam, end his suffering and bring him back. Then again, perhaps the suffering is necessary. Christ suffered and died for man’s sins. Sam is suffering to pay for his sins.

Cas swallows. His sins of giving into famine. Of giving into the manipulations of heaven and hell, the mechanizations set in place when he was an infant.

Sam screams again, louder this time. All he says is no, again and again. Cas closes his eyes. This is nothing he can save the human from. He his not being tortured, he is not being harmed. Everything is of his own making. Sam _asked_ to be tied down, to be left until the demon blood let him out of its immediate grip once more.

Which means Cas is left, to stand guard, and to wait.

He’s done both for millennia, which begs the question--why is this time so hard?

 

_No. Nononononono._

_Lucifer._ He sees Lucifer, and he’s lucid enough to doubt himself. Is this another dream Lucifer has made his way into, one of dozens, or is this simply a hallucination? He can’t be sure. There is no way to tell for sure, to be positive what he’s facing here.

Regardless, he says no, again and again. Just to be sure. Lucifer will not get a yes out of him, not even now, not even when he’s like this. Never. He’s been enough of a fuck-up, come close enough to ending the world. He’s not going to deal it its final blow.

Lucifer can go screw himself. Sam tells him so.

He laughs. “Oh, Sam,” he says. He steps closer and, restrained as he is, Sam can’t move away, has to accept Lucifer’s fingers trailing down his cheek. “I can fix you, you know. Make it so you never hurt again. Just tell me where you are, and I’ll make everything better. I’ll take care of you, you’ll see.”

Sam snorts.

Lucifer’s eyes narrow. “Well, I’ll certainly take care of you better than that waste of a brother you have,” he says. “Leaving you here. Alone. Tied up. You can’t even get water, Sam. Can’t even take a piss. Couldn’t run if this place caught fire.”

Lucifer’s finger sparks briefly, and they both watch it. Lucifer smiles, then dims it. “I would never hurt you, Sam,” he promises. “But I can’t say the same for that brother of yours.”

Dean would never hurt him. Dean protects him, even from himself.

Lucifer laughs. “Really, Sam. Don’t tell me you believe that. Dean protects the family business before anything else. And you are a piece of the family business. The soldier who’s disobeyed his commander.” He leans closer again, so Sam’s forced to look at him. “I was never much for family orders either, Sam,” he whispers, as if it’s a great secret. “We have a lot in common. Together, we could be everything. Re-shape the world. Together. Just tell me where you are.”

_No. No no no no no no no._

Lucifer sighs. “I suppose you wouldn’t be worth it if you weren’t stubborn,” he says. “I’ll be back later, Sam. Perhaps some time seeing…someone else will change your mind.”

Sam closes his eyes, not wanting to see who comes next.

He’s not offered the ability to check out, though. Another voice immediately rouses him.

“Goddamn, Sammy,” Dean says. “Can’t you keep your own ass outta trouble for five minutes, or do I need to keep cleaning up your messes?”

Sam feels tears leak from behind squeezed-shut eyelids, but, hands bound as they are, he can’t wipe them away.

 

The idjit comes back after four hours gone. Bobby can smell the alcohol, although the kid isn’t even walking funny. He frowns. Dean is barely thirty.

But the boy was a hunter young.

“‘Bout time,” he grumps. “Kid’s been screamin’ for hours. I can’t go check on him, and feathers down there ain’t answering me. For all I know, he flew off.”

“What d’you want me to do?” Dean asks, and Bobby sighs. Great. Kid is a belligerent drunk.

“Dunno. Maybe go make sure he’s still alive? Not sittin’ in his own shit, or choking on vomit?” Bobby suggests waspishly. He’s done listening to that kid scream, of neither of them being able to get away from it, just because no one thought it was worthwhile to actually take care of him. Just because Bobby didn’t have the balls to say it, and since when has he deferred to some upstart, overconfident kid hunter?

Since he was Dean Winchester, he figures. Since he was one of the closest things Bobby has to his own boy, since he was the boy Bobby played catch with. Since he carried himself like Dean Winchester.

He closes his eyes, and gets his hands on the wheels, ready to steer himself away. “Just…look after your brother,” he says, voice as commanding as he can make it.

Dean grumbles something. Bobby pretends it doesn’t sound like a particularly petulant, drunk, _you’re not my dad_.

 

Christ. Guy can’t be home for five minutes without getting nagged. Dean wants a shower, and bed. As far as he can tell, Sam isn’t too different than he was when Dean left. Besides, they’ve established before; it’s when he goes quiet that they need to start worrying.

He knows Sam brings trouble on himself like nobody’s business, but even that kid can’t get in too much trouble, lying on his back, in the most secure room Dean’s ever seen.

It’s not like he _won’t_ go down, even if it’s just to see why the hell Cas won’t answer Bobby. But still. First, he could use some time. Some time for himself.

Like a nap. He could use a nap.

But he stares up the stairs, and it looks like an awful long way, even if he knows the exact number of steps--twelve, and the fourth from the bottom creaks a bit if you step on the left side--and he decides against it.

The couch will do just as well. Not like he hasn’t slept on worse.

Except Bobby is there, and he’s practically glaring Dean down. Well, never let it be said Dean Winchester backs down from a challenge. He glares back. “What’s your goddamn problem?” he snaps.

“My problem is there’s a kid screaming in my basement, and you don’t seem to care,” Bobby snaps. “You’re tired? Boo-hoo, princess. Imagine how Sam feels.”

“Sam feels high as a fucking kite, ‘cause he drank a demon down,” Dean snaps back.

Bobby snorts. “He sound like he’s having fun down there to you? Christ, Idjit, kid sounds like he’s being tortured.”

“Detox isn’t supposed to be candy and unicorns, Bobby,” Dean says impatiently. “Give it a rest. He’s fine.”

“Well, we know he’s not dead,” Bobby says dryly, tilting his head to indicate to the screaming still coming from downstairs. “I guess for you, that’s what counts.”

A nap doesn’t sound like it’s in his immediate future. He gets up and stomps his way downstairs, intent on finding Cas.

“Cas, man, what the hell,” he snaps when he sees the angel, exactly where he left him. “Why wouldn’t you answer Bobby? You know he’s stranded.”

Cas turns to look at him, and Dean’s sure it’s his imagination that makes Cas’ eyes look darker.

“Bobby doubts what we’re doing, Dean,” he says. “He is temptation, meant to divert us from our course.”

Dean shivers at that, because _what the fuck_ does that mean? “Bobby just wants some damn answers, Cas,” he says, resuming his own spot by the wall, talking over the shouts.

“Bobby doubts the necessity of this. He would let Sam run around, unclean.”

Dean highly doubts that, any of it, but still, Cas has to be getting this bullshit from somewhere. He sighs, rubs a hand over his tired face. It’s too much. He doesn’t have time for this, too. “Well, alright. Doesn’t matter. You’re keeping him in there, right? How’s it going?”

Cas inclines his head. “I am indeed keeping him in. I cannot fully determine how things are going, but I believe we are making progress.” He stops for a second. “It’s been eight hours. Perhaps we’ll see improvement soon.”

Christ. Has it really been that long, since they got Sammy in there? Dean shakes his head. Eight hours of screaming.

“He say anything?”

“He wishes to be let out. He says no a lot. Sometimes he cries.”

Dean feels a visceral stab in the gut, the urge to maim, silence, at the thought of his brother’s privacy being violated like that, of his weakest moments being dragged out. But he has to remind himself: Sam’s an addict. He relapsed again. He’s done everything Dean’s told him not to, and his stupid addiction is ending the world. He doesn’t get privacy anymore, end of story.

“How much longer?” he demands. They have to get on the road. They have two rings now, which means two more to go, a mission to complete. The world is ending; they’re on a sort of tight schedule, here.

Cas shrugs. “I am not an expert in this. Humans deal with addiction. Not angels.”

Dean grits his teeth. “Well, no humans ever dealt with this before.”

“Then we’ll have to wait,” Cas says.

Dean’s teeth gnash a little harder. “Great,” he grunts. “Just peachy. In the meantime, we might as well catch Bobby up. C’mon, Cas. You’re relieved from duty. Let’s go.”

 

Cas doesn’t understand why Dean needs his help to tell Bobby about what happened, but he follows nonetheless. It is very clear who is giving the orders here, and Cas needs _someone’s_ orders to follow, even now.

Dean sits on the couch, sprawled wide, legs open. Cas opts to stand behind, and Bobby wheels himself opposite them. “Alright, idjits,” the older hunter begins. “Tell me what’s up.”

Dean takes on the duty of explaining--as Cas knew he would, and he still doesn’t know why he is here and not watching over Sam--and talks Bobby through Famine, and the hunger.

Throughout the explanation, Bobby grits his teeth, and it makes Cas want to be downstairs all the more. Not that Bobby can do anything to free Sam, to risk compromising his detoxification, but all the same. Singer is a resourceful man, and Cas doesn’t trust him entirely, not right now.

Singer turns his head away, and Cas wishes he was still enough of an angel to know what the man is thinking.

“Fuck,” he says. He opens his mouth, as if to say more, but then snaps it shut again. “Just take care of the damn kid.”

Cas isn’t sure what care-taking they can do. Sam will either get through this, or he won’t. the panic room is locked. Even if it were possible, there is no interfering.

Still. He returns downstairs, where he’s wanted to be all along.

 

Sam prays for it to end, then laughs at himself. No one answers prayers of people like him.

_Things like him._

“I do, Sam,” Lucifer croons, and Sam jumps as much as the ropes allow him. He’s back. “I’m listening. I’m always listening to you. And I can make it end. Just tell me where you are, and I’ll make it end.”

“I want to die,” Sam whispers.

Lucifer strokes his face. Sam closes his eyes. “No,” Lucifer scolds. “You know I’ll just bring you back. You’ve seen it, you know it. Let me help you. Let me end the pain, give you what you need, ease you. I can take care of you, Sam.”

Sam shivers. “Go away,” he manages. “I’m not going to tell you anything.”

“I could help you.”

“No.”

Lucifer sighs, as if disappointed. He can get in line, Sam supposes. Everyone, from his brother straight up to the devil, is disappointed in him. He laughs a bit.

Even Lucifer is looking at him strangely now. Sam, the crack-up. The demon-blood addicted crack-up on his way straight to hell, but only after the results of his actions end the world.

“Sam--”

“I said NO!” Sam shouts, as loud as he possibly can. He knows, intellectually, that he’s hoarse, that his voice probably doesn’t carry very far. Still, it does the job.

He takes his first deep breath in who knows how long, and lets another tear slip out. He’s as ready as he can ever be for whatever’s coming next.

 

Bobby bumps his chair into a doorframe, just through sheer distraction and irritation.

At least it’s growing quiet downstairs. Cas hasn’t said anything, so he doubts Sam’s having a psychic fit this time. It’s been ten hours. It’s probably just winding down. After all, how long can it go, for a guy who only had one quick relapse?

God, Bobby hopes it’s done soon. That kid deserves a shower. To use a real toilet. A hot meal, some water or a pop or whatever Bobby can pull out of the fridge. A nap, because it’s obvious he hasn’t slept.

That kid deserves to start rebuilding himself, to not be tied to a bed in an iron room, to be allowed the freedom to move and think and act, although Bobby doesn’t know how much of that he’s going to get.

The Winchester way of life has never handled insubordination well.

Bobby can’t say it’s entirely bad--look what happened last time. Still, a part of him wants to say that Sam deserves better, different. Because that’s the crux of this. This whole thing happened because Sam was insubordinate, not because he needed to dry out.

Bobby runs a tired hand over his face. _Balls_. Nothing about this is good.

The kid had been a wreck all those weeks ago, and that’s without completing a proper course down there in that panic room. God only knows how bad he’ll be when Cas and Dean fish him out.

He wants to go to the stairs, ask how Sam’s doing. But he’s not likely to get much of an answer even if Cas does respond, so he refrains.

Instead, he wheels himself to the base of the staircase leading upstairs. He debates briefly asking Dean to bring down something asinine, something stupid, just to start a conversation. But he’s a hunter for god’s sake, not a coward, and he doesn’t need an excuse to talk to that kid.

“You comin’ back down?” he calls.

It takes a minute, but then Bobby hears a groan, then a shuffle. “Can’t a guy catch some sleep?” Dean calls back, although Bobby would bet his hat that the kid wasn’t sleeping.

The thing is, Dean should be able to catch a nap. Bobby remembers one time John dumped the boys on his doorstep, not even leaving the car, just leaving the boys and a duffle bag behind as he drove off. Sam had a head cold. Nothing serious, but the poor boy was six and miserable with it, even if he tried to hide it. Still, Dean wouldn’t leave his side. For days, he spent most of his time checking in on Sam, even if some peace and quiet and a nap would have benefited Sam best of all.

This isn’t like that. Then, Bobby would have given Dean anything he asked for to get the kid in his own room, his own bed, asleep for a few hours. Then, sleep was something the kid needed. But this is…this is avoidance, a failure to face up to his little brother. Whether Dean doesn’t want to see what Sam’s done or what he himself has done, Bobby doesn’t know, and he doesn’t ask. It’s probably a little of both, anyways.

“Kid’s quieting down,” he says. “Might be a good time to look in on him.”

Another put-upon sigh. “Gotta do everything ‘round here,” Dean grumbles, and Bobby is sure he wasn’t meant to hear that one, but he does, nonetheless. “Sammy can’t wait for me to finally get a good night’s sleep?”

“You know he can’t,” Bobby says, injecting as much steel in his voice as he can. “Kid’s been tied to a bed for ten hours. Can’t even take a piss like that. Kid needs a shower, some food, definitely some water. A nap of his own. As soon as we can get it to him.”

“Yeah, well, not before Cas says he’s clean,” Dean says, now making his way down the stairs. “Still, if it’ll ease your conscious, old man, I’ll go check on him.”

Something feels ugly and twisted in Bobby’s gut, because since when does Dean just check on Sam to ease someone else’s conscious?

These demon blood things fucked them up good. No, the angels and the demons have fucked them up good. And they’re not fixing it.

Well, it’s not like _Bobby_ can fix it. What’s one old man to do? They’re Winchesters. Together until the end, family above all else. They’ll bounce back.

He’s almost sure of it.

 

Dean grunts and heads to the basement, the last place he wants to be right now. Bobby’s right, the screaming is dying off, but that doesn’t make it any less agonizing. It’s still Sam whimpering behind that heavy door, no matter how often that Cas assures him that it’s not really.

“How’s it hanging?” he asks Cas.

The angel tilts his head. “He’s recovering,” is all he says.

“How can you tell?”

Cas shrugs. “He’s screaming less.”

Great. Just great. The only way they have to be sure that Sam still isn’t caught in the throes of this junk, who is supposed to be able to tell whether or not Sam is high off his ass, is just as useless as anyone else. Perfect.

“How long?” he asks.

Cas shrugs again. “Soon. Maybe. Dean, I don’t know. I was never trained for this.”

Way to state the obvious, Sherlock. Dean leans against the wall, letting his whole body sag. “What’re we going to do, Cas?” he asks, and for once, he lets the wear show through his voice.

“We’re going to get the other rings,” Cas says. “And we are going to prevent the Apocalypse. Did you forget?”

Dean manages a hollow laugh. “No, Cas, it’s just…” He sighs. “Nevermind. I meant, about Sam. About him and his stupid problem.”

Cas pauses. “I don’t know,” he says.

Dean expects some follow-up, some sort of celestial answer, but he gets nothing. He wants to hit something. Cas, maybe Sam. The wall, at the very least.

“That’s all you got?” he demands.

“It’s all I know,” Cas says. “I could say I suppose Sam has learned his lesson. The social ostracization you’ve forced on him is a powerful tool, and he’s learned well. No one can resist Famine, but thanks to Sam, Famine is now dead. It is unlikely that such a situation will arise again. Therefore, if Sam really has learned his lesson, it is unlikely we will be in this position again. But I cannot know for sure. It’s just a guess.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t trust him to keep his nose clean,” he says. “The fact of the matter is…” He trails off, because he doesn’t know what to say. The fact of the matter is Sam’s always needed a firm hand, a little extra guidance, and this whole thing is just proof. Dean isn’t there for a few months and look what Sam got himself into.

And now Dean will just have to keep an even firmer eye on him, that’s all. Just like always. _Look out for Sammy_.

Maybe he’s sick of looking out for Sammy. But he’s a Winchester, and he actually respects what that name means, and Winchesters don’t shake off their duty.

Cas tilts his head. “Listen,” he says.

The whimpers have stopped.

 

Dean is scaring Cas. Just something about the set to his face, and he remembers what Famine said. Dean is apparently dead inside. He wonders what becomes of humans with nothing left inside them, what they do.

Still, that’s something to worry about later. Right now, Sam needs their attention. Cas unlocks the door, throws it open--for the second time, he reminds himself, only this time Dean is standing over his shoulder so it’s allowed, it’s all okay--and steps inside.

It’s stunning, being almost human enough to smell. And smell the room does. He supposes he should have realized, with almost eleven hours passing and Sam tied down as he was, that…well, the human body has needs.

He wrinkles his nose in disgust, but nevertheless continues to walk towards the human still bound to the bed. “Sam, can you hear us?” he asks.

Sam’s head lolls as he turns to make eye-contact. “You here to kill me?” he asks, and his lips twitch into a grin.

Cas freezes. “No, Sam. You’re done. It’s done. We’re here to bring you upstairs.”

“Oh,” Sam says, looking away. “Just as well. He would just bring me back.”

Cas doesn’t have to ask who _he_ is. “Let me untie you,” he instructs, leaning over Sam.

Sam holds perfectly still. Limp, Cas thinks would be the best way to describe him. He finishes untying him. “Let’s get you upstairs,” he says. “Bobby is waiting to see you.”

Sam opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head as if scolding himself, but Cas knows what he was going to ask and answers. “Dean is waiting for you too.”

It’s a stretch of the truth--Dean is just outside, but he chose not to come in and Cas knows very well that that means something--but Cas has learned enough that there are times where stretching the truth is the thing to do for humans. This is most certainly one of them.

In any case, Dean is still right outside the door, and as soon as Cas pulls Sam outside, Dean is on Sam too, taking his other arm. “Let’s get you upstairs,” he says gruffly.

So the two of them drag Sam’s dead weight up the stairs, slowly. Sam seems to manage better once he’s on level ground, and Bobby wheels himself into the room. Cas catalogues the relief on his face.

“Sam,” he says, face breaking into what passes for a smile. “Good to see ya, kid.”

Sam doesn’t manage to smile back, although it looks like he struggles with it for a moment. “Nice to see you too, Bobby,” he says. “Sorry to come in and…invade your house like this.”

“You’re always welcome here. You know that,” Bobby says.

Sam still somehow looks grateful.

“I want a… can I use the shower?” Sam asks.

“Course you can,” Bobby says. “Can even use mine, down here. If you don’t feel like climbing stairs. Dean’ll go grab your clothes.”

Sam nods absently, and begins to stumble off in the right direction, not looking back.

Cas just watches him go, not sure what to do now.

 

The shower feels divine. Like a treasure, and Sam can’t honestly say it’s real. Maybe it’s just another hallucination. It’s entirely possible. It’s going to be taken away soon, and he knows it.

But the shower remains. The water remains hot, the pressure steady, and it feels good against his sore muscles. The stink and stick of his skin eases, and he feels almost human again.

_Almost._

He wants to laugh, because that’s the best he’ll ever be, won’t it? Almost. Somewhere between human and sucking down demon blood at the slightest provocation.

He gives himself a few minutes in the shower, a luxury he’s sure he doesn’t deserve, then cuts off the water and reaches for the towel he grabbed from the closet. It’s soft. So soft.

It’s old, and worn thin in several places, but Sam couldn’t care less. Right now, the softness is a luxury.

Once he’s dry, he takes a piss, and there’s some stark relief about having a toilet that it brings some ridiculous tears to his eyes. He furiously swipes them away.

Then he dresses again, carefully avoiding the mirror. He can feel his own face, knows he needs a shave, but he doesn’t have a razor and he doubts anyone would give him one right now, anyways. Besides, it’s difficult to shave without a mirror, and if there’s one thing Sam doesn’t want to do right now, it’s see himself.

And see everyone else, honestly, but that one he has to do, and only a selfish coward would try to avoid it. Sam doesn’t want to be that, not anymore, so he takes a deep breath, and opens the bathroom door.

 

 _Balls._ That boy sure does look messed up.

Dean mutters something about “rabbit food” for the “sad puppy.” Bobby does smile a bit, at that. Something is still there, as broken as it is.

So, Dean’s gone, hopefully to just get salad and not on a bender of some sort. Bobby’s left with the kid in the shower and the awkward looking angel who is still standing in his living room.

Bobby sighs. “How are they?” he asks.

Cas tilts his head. “I imagine as well as they have been.”

Bobby shakes his head. The angel still doesn’t know shit, even if he’s catching on slowly.

“Just…give Sam some time,” he commands, and then wheels away, because Dean might be picking up dinner for the kid--breakfast, technically, it’s ten am--but he’s going to want something to drink. Need it, really, at this point.

He has water and whiskey, and even he knows that, for once, the ladder isn’t a viable option. Tea, maybe. Maybe he has teabags, somewhere.

Or maybe he should call Dean, tell the kid to pick up some OJ. Fruit juice is good for people who’ve lost fluids, and Sam definitely qualifies.

Christ, does Sam even like that stuff?

He doesn’t know anymore, really. He wishes he knew that kid better, but all he knows is the image of Sam, shaking minutely as he walks off, so grateful to be allowed a shower.

God damn everything.

He can’t do this again. Maybe next time they turn up at his door, Sam out of his mind held aloft between them, he’ll turn them away, just so they don’t have to go through this again.

They’ll just take Sam somewhere else, and it won’t be some cozy detox in a hotel somewhere. They’ll find another panic room, a substitute, somewhere. Maybe it’ll be worse.

Maybe it just won’t happen again.

Well, Bobby can hope, at least.

 

Dean gets back with the stupid salad to find the kid sitting at the table, gulping down water. At least he smells better now, not so much like a public restroom.

Some part of Dean twinges at the thought, because _of course_ Sam smelt like he pissed himself. Big surprise. The kid was tied to a bed for ten hours.

“Here ya go, rabbit food,” he announces dumping the styrofoam box and plastic fork on the table.

Sam doesn’t look up, and Dean frowns. It’s not like he was expecting declarations, here, or anything, but some gratitude wouldn’t go amiss. He drove all the way into town for that.

Sam eats slowly, almost disinterestedly. Dean sees this reaction every day, but it’s never irritated him more than today.

He grits his teeth and turns away. “Wanna hit the road as soon as possible,” he announces. “Make up for lost time.” _Time you cost us_ he doesn’t say, but he means it and he knows Sam hears it.

Bobby looks at him _hard_ , like when Dean was thirteen and took some of his whiskey, just to try it, only magnified ten or fifteen times. Dean swallows. “Let the boy get a decent sleep in first,” he says.

“Nothin’ wrong with sleeping in the Impala,” Dean says sullenly, but he nods, conceding. An extra few hours won’t kill them, not really. It’s not like Sam sleeps very long.

In the meantime, he can look for their next job. Signs of the apocalypse are appearing all over the place, he bets.

 

Sam looks better, now that he is showered and eating something, even if he does seem to be eating particularly slowly. Dean’s left the room, setting up to research for a hunt in the next room, leaving Bobby and Cas to hover around Sam. Sam, for his part, is hunching forward, as if they, even partway across the small kitchen, are drawing too close to him.

“You wanna sleep, Sam?” Bobby asks when Sam sets down his fork and it becomes clear he has no intention to continue.

Sam nods, slow and lethargic. “You know where the bedroom is, then,” Bobby says.

Sam seems to take that as instruction, and begins to make his way upstairs, slow and still a little unsteady on his feet. Cas watches him until he disappears around a corner, then moves to clean up Sam’s food, storing the rest of the salad in the fridge. Sam will want it later.

Bobby sighs. “How’d this get so fucked up?” he asks.

Cas tilts his head. “Sam is clean again,” he points out. “Everything is on the right track. It might take a little time, but I fail to see how this could be bad.”

Bobby shakes his head. “That’s the problem with you lot,” he grumbles, and wheels himself away, leaving Cas standing in the kitchen.

 

Dean hustles them out as soon as sam pokes his head downstairs after his nap.

“People are dying in Wisconsin,” he announces, and that’s it. Bags back in the car--not that Sam’s ever made it out--quick goodbyes to Bobby, one quiet, heartfelt thanks from Sam for dealing with him like that _again_ , and then they’re in the car, kicking up dust while they try to get back on the highway.

Dean doesn’t say anything else, not even about the case. Sam supposes Dean will fill him in on a need to know basis. After all, he’s probably on double-secret probation again. He just proved pretty clearly that he can’t be trusted.

Sam wishes he could close his eyes, get some more sleep. But he just slept for six hours. He shouldn’t still be tired.

He is, though. Tired and shaky, strung-out. Like a junkie, he supposes, and then hides the snort that comes with that, because _of course_. Well. The first step is admitting it, right? Since he sent himself back to square one, at least he’s making a good start.

There’s a step about apologies in there, too. He’s pretty sure he skipped a few, but, well, Winchesters have never been much for AA. Still, he remembers this much.

“Dean,” he begins. “I’m so, so sorry for what happened. I just need you to know--”

“Save it,” Dean interrupts. “We all knew you’d fall off the wagon again, Sammy. At least I was there, got the mess cleaned up fast. It’s done, nothing you can do about it. Let’s get to work.”

Sam swallows. He didn’t know why he expected anything else.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sure. Let’s get to work.”


End file.
